


no hope in solitude

by mollivanders



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/M, On the Run
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollivanders/pseuds/mollivanders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone says Effy doesn’t talk much.</p><p>Cook knows they’re full of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no hope in solitude

**Author's Note:**

> **Title: no hope in solitude**  
>  Fandom: Skins  
> Rating: PG  
> Characters: Cook/Effy  
> Author's Note: For ever_neutral. Word Count - 419. Spoilers through S4. Prompt was _you sympathized with sin_  
>  Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Everyone says Effy doesn’t talk much.

Cook knows they’re full of it.

He just can’t get her to shut up sometimes.

Not all the time, of course, because Effy’s not an all-the-time kind of girl. That was their first mistake. She only lends herself out in pieces, makes him pay for every time, but Cook stays (because it’s her and him this way; only her and him).

They’re high, usually, when she starts. Most girls would count the stars or talk about books but not Effy. She rants about their unwashed clothes and wishes for a hot bath, which he swears in turn he’ll get for her. Sneaks them in to a hotel room while trying to get her to be quiet for _just one moment_ but she laughs, tugs at his hand and leads him on.

He never asks why him, and not the others; why with him she talks about the color of shit and the smell of old cars and how small she used to feel next to Panda, next to Freddie, next to Tony.

Effy’s hand curls against his chest when he he’s half asleep, pulls herself on top of him and calls his name softly. “Cook. Cook. Wake up.”

“What now, princess?” he asks, habit formed, his hands finding hers and settling at their hips. He tries to find her eyes in the murky darkness. They do smell and he wrinkles his nose at her solemn eyes.

“Should probably eat soon,” she states practically, and he’d look at his watch if he had one. It’s morning somewhere. 

“Fish and chips then?” he asks and she smirks, slides off him. She pulls him up and he stumbles after her, hangs swinging in the darkness between them as she talks about fried chips and hot chocolate and remember that time he bought her a _fucking gateau_?

The words would have stung. 

Once. 

“Why, you want one?” he says instead - doesn't let her answer – pulls her mouth to his in the middle of the road and flips the bird to a honking car as it races past them. She’s sweet and a bit sour (and here) and he feels her try to catch her breath under him, dig her fists in his shirt and stand on her toes to reach him. Habit formed.

“Better?” she asks, pulling back, and her eyes glint again. Cook swallows, grips her hand.

“Better,” he echoes, listens while she complains about the smell of chickens and the fucking streetlamps.

Better this way.

_Finis_


End file.
